Broken
by Virg0Luck
Summary: Broken. Shattered. That was really all he was. Waking up the day after he killed Voldemort, in Hogwarts... Harry wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or not, but it was hell either way...


**Hi, guys! This is just a oneshot I wrote the other day. Hope you enjoy it... xx**

**OOOOO**

Harry was lost.

Harry was confused.

But most of all, Harry had no idea what the hell he had been doing in his spare time when his life _wasn't _consumed with getting rid of Voldemort.

Yesterday, he had stood in the Great Hall of Hogwarts and killed the Dark Lord. The man… no, not man; the creature; the inhuman creature who had wiped out around a third of the magical population and had aimed for a hell of a lot more. The creature that that killed his parents.

He wondered if Tom Riddle had always been like this.

He wondered if, in an alternate universe, he might have ended up like Riddle.

He should have been celebrating, right? But he wasn't.

He just felt… hollow.

He had gone up to his dormitory, to his bed, in Gryffindor Tower. It had been unused for the year. It was made, perfect, waiting for him.

He had literally crashed onto the bed and fallen asleep for twenty hours, wanting to escape the feeling of… loss. They had won, but they had lost.

_Tonks._

_Lupin._

_Fred._

_Countless others who had come, who had fought, who had died._

The battle had taken place because he wanted to find the Horcrux.

_His fault. All his fault._

So many injuries. So many deaths. Was it worth it?

_How different was he from Voldemort, if so many had died because of him?_

"…Harry? Stop wallowing in guilt, Harry, it's not your fault…"

Hermione was calling to him from the common room. She knew him so well.

But he couldn't stop. Not if it was true, if it was all completely true. It was his fault.

"Harry, mate, come on…"

Didn't they understand? Didn't they get what he was going through? It had been _Ron's _brother! Ron's brother! Ron was filled with grief, that was evident in his voice, but he didn't get it.

They were coming up.

"Harry-"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shouted. He hadn't realized how loud his voice was. "JUST LEAVE!"

They left. Some small, irrational part of Harry resented them, hated them for not fighting. They were his friends. This was unhealthy. Hell, he knew it was unhealthy. Shouldn't they fight?

But then, he was grateful. He needed to be alone.

He thought of Fred. Fred, who is always grinning manically. Fred, who…

_Was._

Was. Not is. Fred was… gone. Never returning.

That selfish, irrational voice screamed for Harry to go, to find the Resurrection Stone. Because wouldn't it help everyone's suffering? But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't do that, he couldn't.

His thoughts went to Dumbledore, and his mind filled with hate.

No, not hate. That was too strong. Still, he was full of fury, of anger, of the will to just question Dumbledore. Why had he kept it from him? Harry had just been a pawn, just been a piece in his game. Unimportant.

He knew it wasn't true, somewhere in his mind. But thinking it…

Achieved nothing.

These were the ramblings of a half- mad boy who had been forced to do too much too soon.

He didn't know what to do with himself. What had his time been consumed with, before the Horcrux hunt? Games seemed childish; he wasn't hungry; he had slept; school was over.

He had missed his seventh year. He hadn't taken his N.E.W.T.s. Getting a good job was out of the question.

Then again…

The education had been pretty messed up this year, what with the Carrows and Voldemort…

Maybe his Auror dream would happen.

Again, he wondered what he should do.

Should he go down? Meet everyone? What would happen? He would be regarded as a hero. He didn't want to be regarded as 'The Chosen One' or 'The Boy who Defeated Voldemort.'

He wanted to be Harry. Just Harry.

Still. It was better he faced the inevitable.

He got up; noticing for the first time that he was covered in cuts and scratches. His cheeks were clammy and tasted of salt, and Harry wondered when he'd cried. In his sleep? His clothes and his skin were stained with blood, his own blood, and Harry didn't want to stay like this. The showers were only a few steps away…

But no. Every drop of blood, each salty tear… they all felt like a tribute to the people who had lost their lives fighting.

And for some reason, that was what propelled Harry to stand up.

Nausea overcame him and he stumbled toward the sink and vomited.

He rinsed his mouth out, but nothing could take away the taste in his mouth, and it made him feel worse.

He walked towards the door, refusing to bow to the urges that told him to sprint to the sink and stay there. He walked, as though he was in a trance, noticing everything and yet nothing, and taking nothing in. His feet knew where they were going, but his mind did not; the paths were so deeply imbedded in his mind that he didn't need to consciously think about where he was going. He could see wreckage, and blood, and the screams were still echoing in his mad consciousness, he could still hear the shouts and the cries and the spells and he could see the violent flashes of light and the madness-

But none of it was real.

He was walking through a Hogwarts he had created in his own mind, and he wondered if he was going mad.

There were bodies, everywhere, and blood, and wands, broken beyond repair, and there was blackness, and it was threatening to overwhelm him-

_It's not real._

But it had been. Yesterday. It had all been real.

Just yesterday, and the wounds were still fresh. Would they ever fade?

Ron's body. Hermione's body.

_It's not real._

But then he passed Tonks, and Remus, mutilated, twisted, and he knew these weren't their bodies but they were really dead, they were really gone, and that just made it worse-

He passed the chamber where Voldemort's body lay, and saw the worst hallucination of all; Voldemort, and he was rising back up, and laughing-

_It's not real._

He slipped into the chamber, though, just in case, to check, before carrying on.

Everything was slightly hazy. His glasses were broken again. He knew how to fix them, but he didn't. It felt wrong to be performing such trivial magic.

Sunlight was filtering through the windows of the Great Hall. The tables had been replaced, but they were all covered in medical things; he had no knowledge of wizarding medicines, or healing spells. Still, looking at the faces of the people who had been working tirelessly all through the night to keep people alive… he was filled with a deep, immeasurable guilt.

Someone looked up. Pointed at him. "It's Harry!"

It spreads like wildfire, and suddenly he was engulfed by people, hugging him, or shaking his hand, and their faces lit up, and he hated it.

He walked over to every patient. Every single one. Whether he knew them or not, though the horror of it came from the fact that he knew almost every person.

And he shook their hand, and whispered 'I'm sorry for putting you through this.' And he meant every word. And seeing their faces light up, seeing them feel better, even just momentarily, gave him something it felt like he hadn't had in a long time.

_Hope._

**OOOOO**

**...Thoughts?**

**Ell xx**


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